Page 86 of An Alleged Rogue

Like a trapped snake, hate writhed within him. It had been begging for release ever since Freddie’s narrow escape had sent him to Charing Cross Coaching Inn for a mount rather than to White’s for a celebratory drink. He was unused to failure and the fury it aroused. Indeed, Freddie rarely felt anything beyond eagerness to outwit another or satisfaction over a well-executed scam. If he thought on his past victims at all, it was with little more than callous indifference. None of them had ever made a real attempt to fight back; they had been easy to forget.

Lord Dunsbourne’s son was the exception. After his father’s death, the young baron had doggedly searched for Freddie. Over the years, it had been mildly amusing to hear of the gentleman’s fumbled attempts to uncover clues to Freddie’s whereabouts. But there had been nothing diverting about today’s close call. Today, the new Lord Dunsbourne had destroyed his carefully laid plans. Hadford’s money remained securely in the bank, and Freddie’s pockets were empty.

Freddie clenched his hands. He did not know how Lord Dunsbourne had made the connection between Edward Trevors and Freddie Payne, but it made no difference. Edward Trevors was no longer, and after tonight, the baron would have far bigger things to worry about than tracing Freddie Payne. Lord Dunsbourne would pay for his meddling. Freddie would wait until it was fully dark to act. No one would see him enter the orchard, and by the time the baron returned from London, Freddie would be long gone—and so would Dunsbourne Manor.

Phoebe raised her knitting needles and studied the misshapen mass hanging from them with dismay.

“I am not sure that I have ever failed so completely,” she said. “How on earth do you keep your rows even?”

Emily took one look at Phoebe’s work and started to giggle. “What exactly were you hoping to make?”

“Can I change my mind midproject? I think this looks much more like a duster than a scarf. It has wiggly edges and all those holes for catching cobwebs.”

Emily’s laughter increased, and in the chair across from the young ladies, Miss Glover’s mouth twitched.

“You have made a valiant initial attempt, Miss Hadford,” Miss Glover said.

“Truly you have.” Emily attempted to curb her mirth. “You should see the scarf I made for Adam last year. It was the first knitted project I did on my own and there was nothing remotely straight about it. I am not sure that Adam would have known what it was unless I had told him.”

“Does he use it as a duster?” Phoebe asked, dropping her work to her knee.

“No.” Emily laughed again. “He wraps it around his neck about three times and pretends that it is the warmest scarf he has ever owned.”

Phoebe smiled. She was not surprised. Adam would wear it to a state banquet rather than risk hurting Emily’s feelings.

“As I have told Miss Norton many times before,” Miss Glover said, “practice makes perfect. The scarf she is making this year will be a vast improvement on the last one.”

Phoebe sighed. The long length of knitted blue fabric hanging from Emily’s knitting needles did indeed look scarf-like. As for Miss Glover, her knitting needles clacked with such speed, it was a wonder to behold. And the second mitten she was creating looked just as perfect as the completed one lying on the arm of the chair beside her.

“I may have to stick with stitchery until I can come for another lesson, Miss Glover. But I thank you for your patience with me.”

“I always have extra knitting needles in my bag, Miss Hadford.”

Phoebe recognized the elderly lady’s indirect invitation and marveled at how far they had come.

“That is very kind of you, but I daresay you have indulged this novice long enough for one day.” She set aside her tangled wool, glanced at the window, and gasped. “Oh my. It must be later than I thought.”

When Phoebe first arrived, Emily and Miss Glover had been knitting. Upon learning that Phoebe had never learned the skill, Emily had persuaded Miss Glover to give her friend a basic lesson. They had been fully engrossed in the endeavor ever since. It had been a wonderful reprieve from the worry that had dogged her all day, and Phoebe had completely lost track of time.

With no footmen and only one maid in the house, no one had entered the drawing room to close the drapes or light additional candles. The familiar routine that preceded the coming of darkness in most large homes was absent, and Phoebe had not noticed the dimming light.

“Forgive me, but I must return home immediately.” She rose. “My mother will be wondering what has become of me.”

Emily set aside her knitting and stood. “It is my fault for keeping you here too long. You cannot go home by yourself in the dark. Oliver will be finished in the cart shed by now. He can take you back in our carriage.”

Phoebe was not of a mind to argue. Walking through the woods alone at night was an experience she was happy to avoid.

“Come.” Emily was already walking toward the door. “I will go with you to the stable.”

In the hall, Thompson handed Phoebe her hat and redingote and gave Emily her cloak, then the two young ladies hurried outside. The gravel crunched beneath their feet, the sound seeming louder than usual in the quiet that accompanied darkness. A breeze had picked up. Phoebe pressed her hand to her hat to secure it more firmly in place.

They turned the corner of the house. In the distance, a black rectangle marked the cart shed. No light showed from within, a sure sign that the men had already left. The stable was closer, and the large doors were outlined by the faint yellow of lamplight. They crossed the yard quickly, and Emily pulled open the door.

“Oliver,” she called.

“Yes, miss.” Oliver appeared from a nearby stall.

“Miss Hadford needs to return to Charwell Park in our carriage. Would you make it ready?”